


The Language of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones' Diary- Helen Fielding
Genre: Gen, Humor, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IN which Bridget attempts with the usual comedy of errors to make a self-help project of her marriage. Post MATB, but with living breathing Mark Darcy, because I can do things like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea about a year ago after reading "The Five Love Languages" by Dr. Chapman. I read the singles version (because am not yet as fortunate as Bridget), but it's all transferable. I've only just gotten around to writing it, and I hope you enjoy.

The Language of Love  
by Eggsbenni 221  
Words: 10290  
Rating: T  
Summary: IN which Bridget attempts with the usual comedy of errors to make a self-help project of her marriage. Post MATB, but with living breathing Mark Darcy, because I can do things like that.

Disclaimer: the usual obligatory statement. Not my characters, and all that.  


Author's Note: I came up with this idea about a year ago after reading "The Five Love Languages" by Dr. Chapman. I read the singles version (because am not yet as fortunate as Bridget), but it's all transferable. I've only just gotten around to writing it, and I hope you enjoy.

As usual, typos are mine. Current work schedule necessitates that I do most of my writing before bed, so am not fully operating by that point.  
  
\---2014---

6 April  
Weight: 9 ST (or 8…or 10…afraid to weigh self in fear of off-setting balance of entire universe).  
Calories: inconclusive. Have horrible weight in stomach unrelated to food consumption that nevertheless makes self feel like have swallowed hippopotamus or similar.  
Alcohol units 2 (Excellent!)  
Cigarettes: 2 (shit. Am disgusted with self. Still, is not as if am going to die from it as Mark will probably kill me when he finds out—if he finds out). Is all Tom's fault. Bloody peer pressure.

11.30PM: Bed. Mark and children asleep, children blissfully so. Love family best when all are asleep and am left alone in solitude to converse with own thoughts. Also hate Mark for being able to sleep when am obviously disturbed in mind. Mmm, still love to watch him sleep, and after so many years he seems to have developed thought-vibe resistance. Love snuggling up to peacefully sleeping husband, like… fuck! Mark, wake up! If you don't wake up, we can't talk, and we so clearly need to talk.

Mark had to work late tonight, a regular occurrence lately. After got children in bed, Tom came round. Love Tom, but have honestly been avoiding him lately. Having every one of your life's problem's excavated and scrutinized is sort of an occupational hazard of being friends with a psychologist, but lately Tom has been more invasive than ever. Even for Tom.  
There we were, calmly sipping our wine, and Tom turned to me and said, "What's troubling you, ducky?"  
"Hmm?"  
"Bridge, something's bothering you."  
"What makes you think something's bothering me?" I asked, scrolling through the text-messages on my phone to appear disinterested.  
"I'll give you three reasons," said Tom, flicking a cigarette ash from the cuff of his shirtsleeve. "1: there's a plate of biscuits in front of you and you haven't touched even one."  
"I'm exercising willpower," I replied.  
"2: you've taken maybe a single sip of wine. I'm honestly inclined to feel for a temperature."  
"I'm… nursing it," I said.  
"3," continued Tom, ignoring my protests, "you haven't asked me once about my sex life."  
"Because I'd like you to leave before I've got to get the children up for the school run."  
"Fair enough," said Tom. "But seriously, Bridge, what's wrong?"  
I hesitated, narrowing my eyes. "Are you asking professionally, or as a friend?"  
"Bridget, you wound me!" cried tom, clutching his chest.  
"I know. That wasn't fair. I'm sorry, Tom."  
"Here," said Tom, handing me a cigarette. I blinked.  
"Tom, are you insane? I've not had a fag in… I can't remember how long."  
"Desperate times, honey," said Tom.  
"Mark is going to kill me," I said, giving in. Still not entirely sure what possessed me.  
"Bridge, he's going to kill you anyway if you don't cheer up. Honestly. It can't be good for your sex life. What a bore you must be in the bedroom."  
"He hasn't exactly been charming the pants off me either lately," I mumbled.  
"Hmm, perhaps we can talk Daniel into flirting with you a bit next time he comes round to do his godfatherly duties. That generally gets Mark's attention."  
I glared at him. "Tom, I'm being serious. Mark hasn't been himself at all, or at least, as much of himself as anyone can expect him to be at the moment." Ever since Sudan, Mark predictably becomes a bit withdrawn and anxious during this time of year, though he has generally managed to pull himself out of it. Due to a last-minute change in plan, Mark had not in fact been in the armored vehicle lost in the landmine explosion supposed to have killed him—am still to this day not entirely clear on all details, in part because shock made processing and retaining factual information nearly impossible and in part due to sensitive nature of whatever Mark had undertaken. Plus, Mark always v reluctant to discuss it, obvs, and have never wanted to press the issue. Given the aftermath of the situation, inability to identify bodies ETC., several weeks had elapsed before Mark had managed to make contact, during which time we had all presumed him dead. The stress of the work combined with the trauma of losing a colleague and a certain degree of survivor's guilt had naturally left Mark traumatized.  
Reading my thoughts, Tom nodded. "I know this is a rough time for Mark. It's natural that the memories of everything would resurface, but he's gotten better at handling it every year."  
"It's different this year, Tom," I said. "Or, not so much different as… more intense."  
"Why?" asked Tom, slipping into clinical mode.  
I sighed, resigned to the inevitable. "I don't know. You remember what it was like when we first got the news about—about what had happened. Getting Mark back—realizing he wasn't actually dead doesn't erase the fact that in those moments, it was all real—the grief, the pain, the feeling of having my entire world blown apart. I know he's aware of that, and I feel like he's harboring this incredible sense of… self-loathing, and I don't know what's triggered it."  
"The thing is, Bridget," said Tom, "and you probably know this, but even though Mark's dealt with all of that within the past few years, even though he's sought treatment for it, that doesn't mean it's gone. It just means he's learned to cope with it."  
"I know that, but he won't talk to me about it. Not that this is really all that surprising. I know he won't ever admit to me how he's feeling, and maybe not even to himself, but I see it sometimes. It's this look he gets in his eyes when he's tucking Mabel into bed or helping Billy with his homework, like he still hates himself for even considering putting himself in a situation that nearly altered their lives forever."  
"I don't think he's ever fully allowed him to accept that none of that is really his fault," said Tom in that hoity-toity professional voice that always makes me want to shove my entire glass of wine in his face, but that would be a complete waste of valuable alcohol. Better to drink it and numb self against annoyance with friends who are, after all, only trying to help.  
"Don't you think I've been telling him that constantly since he's come back? We went through all of that when he was in counseling."  
"Well, it probably bears repeating. Come on, Bridget. We all know Mark. It's in his nature to take far more responsibility on himself than he deserves, so do you honestly expect him to let this one go so easily? We're talking about the rest of his family's lives he nearly missed, here, not one of Billy and Mabel's parents nights."  
"You don't need to remind me," I grumbled, sloshing more wine into my still-full glass. "And maybe that's part of the problem. I can't be expected to just forget about all of it either. I know it's not Mark's fault, really, and I'm not angry with him—he knows that—"  
"But you were," Tom said seriously. "Come on, Bridge, you know you were. You couldn't help it. You felt abandoned, and Mark knows that, even if you'd never tell him to his face."  
"I'd never have stood in the way of his career. I know how much his work means to him."  
"Bridget, that's not the point. Letting him go didn't mean you had to like it. After all, you'd just had a baby, and there was your husband dashing off to save the world while you had to deal with colic and dirty nappies."  
"It's not like that," I snapped. "Don't make it sound so… 1950s."  
"OK, fine," Tom conceded. "But you still felt like he was taking an enormous risk—a risk he didn't need to take, maybe."  
I sighed. "It's still so weird sometimes, looking at the calendar and thinking back to this time six years ago. How utterly, freakishly fucked up is that? Someone shows up at your door, tells you your husband is dead, and then three weeks later you get a crackly phone call: 'Sorry about that, love. Terrible mix up. I'm alive. The thing is, that date doesn't ever really disappear. It just… sort of… stays etched permanently into your brain, a reminder of what could have happened and didn't, but that you know some day will happen eventually. It's like Charles Dickens, but without mad spirits popping through doors and warning people about their immortal souls and all that. It all just comes back. I know the point is to keep him focused on the positive things to distract him—the children, the fact that he's still with us—but what am I supposed to do about it? Stick a candle in a lemon pound cake and say: 'Happy you-almost-died-but-didn't day'? When he gets like this, it's like losing him all over again."  
Tom lit another cigarette before answering. "Listen, Bridge, I know you're not asking for my professional opinion—"  
"But that's not going to stop you," I interrupted.  
"Just hear me out. Part of the problem—and maybe none of us ever really thought about it because we were so focused on getting Mark back to his old self—is that you didn't really take any time to sort through your own trauma, first what happened; then having to deal with Mark. You've spent so much time focusing on him and the children that you never really thought about what any of this did to you."  
"But how am I supposed to communicate that to him when he's like this?" I protested.  
"I've got something that I think will help," said Tom, handing me a book.  
"Is this something they taught you in Psychology 101, how to conjure self-help books from thin air?" I asked.  
"No," Tom chuckled. "I've actually been carrying it around with me, meaning to give it to you."  
Mildly curious, I studied the cover. "The Five Love Languages?" I read out loud. As I stared at it, something stirred in my memory. "I think Jude might have told me about this, and… wait, isn't this author, Garry Chapman, some type of Christian minister in America?" I immediately remembered Shazzer telling me during one of our Skype calls that Jude had told her about the book too.  
"Yeah, that's the one," said Tom. "I don't even know how Jude got hold of it, but Shaz seemed a bit skeptical."  
"I think her exact words were: 'Why would anyone want to read this fucking fundamentalist hogwash'?"  
"Something like that," laughed Tom. "But the thing is, I've had a look at it myself, and it's not really as crazy as it sounds. See, the premise is that there are five basic languages we all use to communicate love and—"  
"Five?" I nearly shrieked. I can barely translate a page of French, and there was Tom telling me that I needed to learn five more languages to save my marriage. "I might as well just head for divorce court right now."  
Tom laughed. "No, Bridge, hear me out. By languages, Chapman just means ways of communicating love. There are five of them, and each of us has one primary language that best communicates love for us. The idea is that we can create better relationships if we learn to speak each other's love language."  
"Or we could all just move to a nudist colony and spend our evenings sitting round a campfire holding hands and singing 'Kumbaya'," I said.  
Tom sighed. "I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, but I'm only asking you to give it a try. Here, tell you what." Tom refilled my wine glass, which was still technically overflowing. "There. Take a sip and read a few pages."  
"Tom, you just bribed me with alcohol. How could you—"  
"Know that would work?" Tom smiled. "Drink up, Bridget."

I did as instructed and promised I'd hold on to the book for a few days and try to implement some of its suggestions with Mark. I still think Tom has gone a bit mad, but I'm desperate. I want my husband back, and if it means returning to worship at the altar of self-help, so be it. Realize this sounds completely melodramatic, but is natural and just under the circumstances.

7 April  
Weight: 9 ST  
Calories: honestly don't give a fuck.  
Alcohol units: 3. (How else am I supposed to cope with the mood in this house?)  
Project Love Language Day 1: words of affirmation. According to Chapman, words of affirmation are like words of encouragement, making sure your partner knows he/she is loved, or is doing a good job. Hmm, am always telling Mark how wonderful he is ETC., though is usually during sex. Need to work on speaking love language in a variety of contexts.  
7.30AM: Late for school run, again. Billy mislaid his bassoon, again. Not quite sure how he manages to do this as is not like mislaying books or pencils or similar items much smaller than a bassoon. V. uncharacteristic of Billy to be so absent-minded; usually takes after his father in this regard. While was searching for it in unlikely places like the loo and the laundry basket, could hear Mark lecturing Billy about the importance of organization. Thought about pointing out that said impromptu lecture was making Mark late for an early meeting at chambers, but on-balance, decided not to push it.  
9.00AM: The bassoon, it transpired, was in the closet, where it belonged, so naturally the one place none of us thought to look. Got children's things together and off to school, but not without avoiding a near-row with Mark. He accused me, again, of being too lenient with the children.  
"Mark, I don't think this is really the proper time for this conversation," I ventured to point out. "We'll deal with this later."  
"You always say that, Bridget," Mark replied irritably, "but when do you ever follow through?"  
Suddenly felt like terrible failure as wife and mother and like I was going to burst into tears, but instead went to Mark and held him.  
"It's all right," I whispered. "You don't need to worry about this right now. We can talk about it later."  
Mark stiffened. "Yes, because what I need more than anything else at the moment is to have my children's disciplinary problems to face when I come home from work."  
That made me angry. "Well, pardon me, Mr Top-notch Human Rights barrister. What do you think I do all day? Sit around the house making shadow puppets on the walls? You don't think these things worry me all day as well?"  
"Bridget, that's not what I—" Mark faltered. "I didn't mean it like that, Bridget."  
"I know," I murmured, returning to him and wrapping my arms around him again.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered, resting his chin on the top of my head. "Can you forgive me?"  
"Of course," I said, tilting my head up to peck him on the lips. Just then Mabel burst in, and we broke apart hastily.  
"Mummy! Daddy! We're going to be late for school!"

12.30PM: Called Tom to discuss progress, or lack thereof, with Mark. Explained all about the row and feeling like I couldn't communicate at all.  
"Well, it's like you said. That wasn't really the best time to talk about things," said Tom. "You did your best to diffuse the situation, and you'll just have to pick up where you left off tonight."  
"I'd rather drill my own teeth," I replied.  
"Look, here's a thought. Don't try so hard. Don't try to manufacture it. I know you're concentrating really hard on hitting the key points and finding the right language, but just look for an opening. Don't try to create one." Love Tom. He always knows the right thing to say. (Except really wish he hadn't given me this bloody book in the first place. Think will just put it away till Bonfire Night and then burn it).

11.00PM: Rest of day went normally; children survived school with no injuries or catastrophes, Mark home in time for dinner. We spent most of the evening avoiding each other's gazes. I kept looking for an opportunity to talk about what had happened this morning, but of course, we didn't have a moment alone until the children had gone to bed. Came downstairs after performing all nightly rituals, including checking Mabel's closet for monsters, and found Mark on the sofa, absent-mindedly thumbing through a book. He looked pale and tired and, somehow, insubstantial, like a ghostly impression of his former self. I stared at him for several moments, seized again with the fear that had constantly gripped me during his first few days at home—the fear that if I closed my eyes or looked away for a moment, he'd disappear.  
"I don't think I have the energy to talk," he said wearily as I sat down next to him.  
"Then let me do the talking." I reached over and slipped my fingers through his. "Mark, about this morning, none of it is your fault."  
"I'm aware of that, Bridget," Mark sighed. "It's hardly my fault when my son can't recall where he's put his belongings."  
"Mark, forget about the bloody bassoon, because that's just a small part of the bigger issue."  
"Bridget, I really don't feel like discussing this."  
"Mark, please," I said gently, giving his hand a squeeze. "Just listen for a moment. Please?" Reluctantly he nodded, resting his head against the back of the sofa. "You can't claim responsibility for every single mistake the children make. They're children; they're going to make mistakes. You can't think that every single thing that goes wrong somehow has to do with some kind of lapse of discipline on your part, and you can't keep thinking that you have to do a better job and try harder because of… what happened in Sudan. Almost losing you was bad enough without you feeling like you owe us something."  
Mark sighed. "Bridget," he said slowly, his eyes closed, "I can't—can we just… I'm really not in the frame of mind to deal with this right now."  
I squeezed his hand between both of mine, my eyes filling with tears. "Mark, it's just—this isn't like you, dwelling on the past, wallowing in it." When he didn't respond, I continued, "Thinking about what happened, or what might have happened in the past doesn't change what you are in the present: you're a wonderful father. The children are proud of you, and so am I." As I spoke, I felt Mark's hold on my hand loosen; I looked up, expecting to meet his eyes, and found that he'd fallen fast asleep. Honestly, why do I even bother? Now I've got to go through all of that again tomorrow?

8 April  
Weight: 8 ST.  
Calories: 500, in anticipation of high-calorie but insubstantial fancy law council dinner food. (Hate Mark. Is all his fault).  
Alcohol units: 0. (Again, all Mark's fault.)  
Project Love Language Day 2: quality time. According to Chapman, one of the most important ways to maintain good communication in a healthy relationship is quality time. Is entirely logical, though fails to take into account audience of women married to top human rights barristers and absentee husbands/fathers. Is not own fault husband went off to war-torn country and was mistaken for dead, leaving huge gaping hole in family. (OK, is not his fault either: re being mistaken for dead.)  
12.00PM: Fuck. Have had text from Mabel's school. Mabel sick with stomach flu and being sent home. Must go and collect her. My poor little girl. (Really hope she won't vomit in car. Have just had seat upholstery cleaned of accumulation of squashed bananas, chocolate ice-cream, and something red and unidentifiable that could be strawberries or… something else. Argh.)

1.30PM: Home, Mabel curled up in nest on sofa watching 'SpongeBob'. Now have horrible dilemma. Have sick child to care for and tonight promised to attend law council dinner with Mark. Well, not so much promised as insisted on accompanying him. Thought would be perfect opportunity to work on love language of quality time. Realize dull as ditchwater law council dinner maybe not best environment for bonding with husband. Would much prefer seaside cottage, but have no idea when will get time with Mark away from children. Also being supportive wife will earn self supportive wife points that can trade in for shag. Come to think of it, have accumulated so many supportive wife points that if traded them all in at once Mark would have to quit his job and just shag all day in manner of bunnies. (Should really consider as option. After risking life and limb think husband should be entitled to early retirement.)

3.00PM: Still in dilemma. Got Mabel back into car and went to pick up Billy from school. Could not get hold of any of class mums to ask if could get him. On way home tried to sort out mess in head. Had planned to leave children with Daniel so could go to bloody dinner with Mark, but think would be V unfair now to put Daniel in charge of sick daughter. His baby-sitting skills are dodgy enough when both children are healthy. If leave them with him now, somehow Mabel will mysteriously contract malaria in some inexplicable way. Decided to ring Mark. While waiting for him to answer got stern look from Billy in rear-view mirror. Felt v strange calling husband while having miniature version of husband sending mind-reading stare into back of head.  
"Mum, Daddy wouldn't like you being on your mobile while you're driving." Hmph. Don't have marvelous modern technological hands-free connectivity thingy-whatt'sit-called in car like Mark does.  
"Sh, I'm calling Daddy," I hissed.  
"He won't answer," piped up Billy. "He's got court this afternoon." Ignored chattering child in back seat and waited for Mark to answer. Got voicemail.  
"Told you," said Billy.  
Set v bad safety example and sent quick text to Mark while waiting for traffic light to change. 'Call when you see this.'  
"Mummy's going to crash the car," said Mabel.  
"Mummy isn't going to crash," I said distractedly. Ping from phone. Text back from Mark. 'On way to court. Can't talk.'  
"Told you," Billy said again.  
"Billy, it's impolite to read over someone's shoulder," I snapped. Have no idea how child has memorized time table of entire family.

5.05PM: never heard from Mark, but should be coming home to change for dinner. Mabel feeling slightly better and not feverish so decided is safe to go with Mark, though not quite safe to leave still-slightly-sick child with Daniel. Magda coming round instead. Has had children of own so is more qualified than Daniel to manage in situation involving bodily fluids leaking from said children. Plus, Jeremy traveling for work so does not have to attend dinner in role of supportive wife.

5.45PM: Odd, Mark not home. Wonder if got held up in court. If we are late for dinner will make him v cranky, but secretly glad for once that tardiness will be Mark's fault rather than mine (or fault of slow British legal system? Dickens would probably agree).

6.05PM: Still no Mark. Called and texted and got no response. Not like him at all. Becoming seriously annoyed.

6.15PM: Gah, Mabel threw up again. Glad for once that am procrastinator in the getting dressed for evening department as would otherwise have had fashion crisis of vomit-covered cocktail dress. V unattractive evening look.

6.30PM: Magda here. As soon as she arrived, got Billy settled with his homework and checked on Mabel, then dragged Magda upstairs to act as fashion consultant as I got dressed for dinner. V strange that Mark still not home. Flipped frantically through dresses in wardrobe while chatting to Magda about love languages and failed attempts to communicate with Mark.  
"I don't know, Bridge. Don't you think you're going a bit overboard with this?" she asked, studying the effect of a strappy high-heel against an acid-green dress that had no idea I owned.  
"Mark doesn't like that one," I said, eyeing it distastefully. "He says it makes me look like a poisonous snake." Really do love that husband can be honest with self about fashion choices so never have to worry about leaving house looking like fashion violator, or blind person.  
"Actually, I think this is Jude's dress anyway," said Magda. "What's it doing here?" Good question. Must have borrowed for something and forgotten, though obviously Jude hasn't missed it. Why should she? Is ugly as sin. Not even sure why borrowed it unless for costume party in which was dressed as acid-green poisonous snake.  
"Does Mark ever talk to Jeremy?" I asked, pulling a dark blue dress from the back of the wardrobe and holding it up to the light.  
"If he does, Jeremy never talks to me about it," said Magda, nodding in approval at my selection. "I know Jeremy's said a few times recently that Mark is looking a bit strained, but from what I can tell, Mark isn't talking about it." I draped the dress over my arm and went into the bathroom.  
"I don't know, Mags. He seems so… distant."  
"Mark never really did get a handle on verbalizing emotions," said Magda.  
"That's just it. I think he's always relied on me for that, and until now I never really thought much about how that affects our marriage. I just overcompensated. I thought the whole point of therapy was to help him to, I don't know, emote."  
"Well, therapy isn't meant to be a cure," said Magda. "And after what Mark went through, you'd hardly expect a few months of counseling to be a miracle cure. It's just supposed to provide him with coping mechanisms. That's why I think this whole love language project might be a bit much. I mean, if you think it will help you to support him, then by all means, keep at it, but you also need to remember that Mark has already made remarkable progress. He's only human, and I think we all hero-worship him a bit too much sometimes." Standing before the mirror, I rapidly blinked the moisture out of my eyes. Damned mascara brush. Magda was right though. All of us did hero-worship Mark. Not that he wasn't the brave and resilient man we believed him to be, but he was hardly invincible. "Just give it time, honey," Magda said gently, patting my shoulder.  
"Mummy!" Mabel called from downstairs. "Mummy! I can't find Saliva!"  
"I've got this," said Magda. "You finish dressing. Actually, if Mark isn't home soon, you might want to just meet him there." Just then, my mobile rang. Magda handed it to me before leaving the room to tend to Mabel.  
"Hello?"  
"Bridget, it's Mark."  
"Mark, where are you?"  
"I'm on my way to the dinner now. I was held up in court, and I had to return to chambers to file some papers. I hadn't any time to come home in between."  
"Why didn't you just tell me we should take separate cars? I could have left twenty minutes—"  
"Bridget, listen, why don't you just stay home? You know these are work evenings for me, and I have some urgent business to discuss tonight. In any case, I think you're better off staying with Mabel." Given tell-tale sounds of retching coming from downstairs, Mark was probably right.  
"I suppose so."  
"Right. Well, I've just arrived. I'll try to get away as soon as I can. I love you," he said hastily before ending the call.  
"I love you too," I said to the silence at the other end of the line.

11.30PM: Everyone in bed except me. Decided to spend night camped out by Mabel's bed in case of vomit-induced emergency. Cannot sleep anyway, so might as well be devoted mother. Mark came home nearly half an hour ago. Had slipped away to shower after children had fallen asleep and came back to find him standing beside Mabel's bed, thumbing through the copy of Beatrix Potter's stories, which he's recently taken to reading to Mabel before bed.  
"How was the evening?" I whispered. Slowly Mark raised his eyes from the book. Even in the dim glow of the night lamp I could see the lines of worry and exhaustion etched into his face.  
"Bridget, I didn't realize you were standing there."  
"Yes, well, Benjamin Bunny is a riveting tale," I said with an attempt at a smile. Mark glanced down at the book in his hand again; then with a sigh he closed it and set it back on the bedside table before bending and pressing a kiss to Mabel's brow.  
"You're angry," said Mark as he followed me into our bedroom.  
"I don't know if I am," I answered. "Right now, I'm just tired, and a little frustrated."  
"I'd have thought you'd be relieved, actually. I know you only attend those law counsil dinners out of some sense of wifely obligation. Not that I don't appreciate it, but—"  
"Mark, that isn't what it's about at all. You've not been yourself lately, and I’m concerned."  
Mark hesitated. "I know. You're right." Fuck, if I knew it would be that easy to excavate Mark's emotions like that, would've started reading Chapman's book ages ago. "I'm sorry. I just…" His voice trailed off. Shit. Obviously jinxed self with overly positive thought vibes. No matter. Try again.  
"Mark, what is it? What's wrong? Maybe I can help, and if nothing else, I can listen." Without speaking, he came and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. "It's all right," he whispered into my hair, and I wondered if he was speaking to himself more than to me. "It's going to be all right." He caressed my cheek with his fingertips and then leaned down and laid his lips on mine in a slow, deep, hungry kiss—not so much a passionate, devouring hunger as a craving for another's touch.  
"Be patient," Mark whispered as we drew apart. "It will be all right." Suppose will just have to trust him as have absolutely no fucking clue what's going on.

8 April  
Weight: 9 ST (Gah. Overnight? Have eaten practically nothing, so is obviously stress weighing down fat cells, like gravity or similar).  
Calories: 0. Have been running round house all day in manner of over-caffeinated hospital nurse so have had practically no solid food.  
Alcohol units: 0. (Hurrah. Between sobriety and selflessly caring for family am practically saint).  
Project Love Language Day 3: acts of service. According to Chapman, we show one another that we love them through acts of kindness and service. So for Mark, would mean him doing the washing up without being prodded, beyond just twiddling fork under the tap, obvs. Am not concerned with self's ability to perform acts of service after day have had. Am practically on verge of being canonized as saint.

7.00AM: Mabel much improved, but have decided to keep her home from school another day in case of freak projectile vomit accident potential. Mark v grumpy because overslept. Obviously been married to me for far too long as never would have slept through alarm in a previous life. V un-Mark-like. Should think of way to cheer him up. Focusing on acts of service today. What can I do?

7.15AM: texted Tom for advice. 'Help. Working on acts of service from Chapman book today. Must think of loving act of service to perform for husband.'

7.17AM: Tom Texted back. 'A blowjob generally goes down well.'

7.18AM: Text to Tom: 'Tom! Be serious!'

7.22AM: Tom: 'I'm always serious about sex, ducky.'

7.25AM: Me: 'Pervert.'

7.29AM: Tom: 'You like it.'

8.03AM: Hurrah! Brilliant top notch notion! Since am home anyway, will surprise Mark with lovely crème brulee. If Mabel up to car ride, will just pop out for ingredients. Am quick-thinking domestic goddess! Tralalala!

8.13 AM: fuck. Realized have no clue how to make crème brulee.

8.15 AM: Hurrah! Thanks to modern convenience of internet and whole world being at fingertips ETC., have found lovely recipe for crème brulee. Hope does not call for string as do not think would go over well if turned entire thing blue.

8.23AM: Excellent. Recipe v simple, actually: only cream, egg yolks, white and brown sugar, and vanilla extract. Am going to be domestic goddess extraordinaire and surprise husband with lovely dessert made in spirit of love and service. Will most definitely be receiving gratitude shag tonight.

10.00AM: right. Heading off for ingredients. Praying child will not projectile vomit in middle of shop.

10.15AM: shit. Have turned round. Forgot bank card.

10.16AM: and shopping list.

10.25AM: V strange. Came home and saw Mark's car.  
"Mummy, look, Daddy's home," said Mabel.  
"Yes, I can see that," I said apprehensively. Quickly checked phone for missed texts or calls informing me of emergency like missing child or invasion of London by alien life forms, ETC. Nothing.  
"Right, Mabel. Try to be very quiet when you go inside. Daddy is probably working in his study, and he won't like to be disturbed. We're just going to go in, find my bank card, and leave again. All right?" Mabel nodded. Went inside and thought had better check to make sure everything was OK.  
"Mark?" When got no answer decided to check the study. Tapped on door and still got no answer. "Mark, are you in there? Is everything all right?" Had reservations about opening door and disturbing top-secret phone call with Mexican ambassador or similar, but thought should just have a look. "Mark? I didn't expect you home." The room was in semi-darkness; Mark's attaché case rested atop the desk. Fighting a prickle of unease, I turned and could just make out a dark shape on the sofa at the end of the room. Stood paralyzed with fear for what seemed like several minutes but was actually about 5 seconds. 'Oh God. Am going to be like one of those women in crime shows who come home and find husband murdered by mad axe-man.'  
Once had calmed self down, approached Mark and laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking him rather more roughly than was probably necessary in my agitation.  
"For God's sake, Bridget." Mark's eyes opened, and he blinked several times before pulling me into focus.  
"Mark, what are you doing home? What's wrong?" He slumped wearily against the cushions but said nothing. "I thought you were dead."  
"I feel close to it at the moment," he said finally, "but this fever could be clouding my judgment."  
Frowning, I rested a hand on his forehead. "Shit, Mark, are you running a temperature or trying to roast a goose? Did you feel like this when you left the house this morning?"  
"Not—not quite," he replied, which, in Mark terms, meant he had probably felt even worse. "I thought I could fight off whatever it was, or work through it."  
"Of course you did," I said, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.  
"But by the time I got into the office it became clear that wasn't an option. I could just as easily work from home and—"  
"I don't think so. You're going straight to bed."  
"Ordinarily I would consider that a tempting invitation, but—"  
"Mark, I'm not joking. Can you make it upstairs?"  
Mark scowled. "It's not the Black Plague, Bridget. I'm a bit under the weather. That's all." Even as he stood, however, he suddenly grasped my shoulder to steady himself.  
Managed to maneuver him upstairs and into bed.  
"Now you know how it feels getting you upstairs after one too many mojitos," Mark said sleepily as he crawled between the sheets.  
"Very funny," I mumbled. "Just rest now. I think you've just caught whatever Mabel had."  
"I don't think so. It's probably just—" Mark stopped mid-sentence and clapped a hand to his mouth.  
'Famous last words,' I thought as I rushed to his side.

11.30PM: am utterly exhausted. Have helped Billy with homework, played fashion show with Mabel (essentially involving clapping enthusiastically as she modeled every item of clothing in her wardrobe), read Beatrix Potter while suffering through being informed by my daughter that Mark's bunny voices are far superior to mine (little brat), fed, bathed, and got both children to bed, all between tending germ-infested husband. Mabel's bed-time stalling question of choice tonight was, of course, "Mummy, where do babies come from?" Really have no desire to relive that conversation. Of course she'd have chosen most astronomically awkward question when am doing the bedtime routine solo. Is much easier handling such delicate subjects when can tag-team with Mark. Add to all of this: Mark totally unresponsive to language of service, though has spent almost entire day asleep (when not vomiting spectacularly), so really cannot blame him. Still, really don't see the point of all of this if it will just go unnoticed. Bloody self-help books. Going to kill Tom.

9 April  
Weight: No fucking clue.  
Calories: See above.  
Alcohol units: 0 (Unprecedented. Really should check to see if have been canonized yet).  
Project Love Language Day 4: physical touch. According to Chapman… well, think this one is fairly self-explanatory, though v frustrating as not much can do when husband suffering from gastrointestinal form of the plague.

4.00PM: Mark slightly improved. Mabel Back at school today, so house quiet and could attempt to get work done. Spent most of day curled up with laptop in bed beside Mark, mostly as precautionary measure, though probably burned 5000 calories running up and down stairs yesterday. Oops. Hear Billy calling.

5.15PM: Hmph. Hate British education system, which apparently exists for the sole purpose of making parents look stupid. Went to help Billy with homework question, only to discover as soon as I got there that he'd changed his mind.  
"It's OK, Mum," he said apologetically. "I'll figure it out, or I'll ask Dad when he feels better."  
"Can't I help you?" I asked, leaning over to peer at his books.  
"Well, I dunno. I mean—" Billy hesitated. "It's, uh, I'm—doing my geography homework." Fuck. Really wish now Daniel hadn't told children the Germany story. No matter.

6.15PM: left Billy to it and went to poke around in the kitchen to throw together something marginally edible for the children. Had begun peeling potatoes when thought should see if Mark felt able to hold something down. Found Mabel cuddled up to Mark in bed, attempting unsuccessfully yet adorably to read 'Benjamin Bunny' out loud.  
In the act of turning a page, Mabel looked up at her father.  
"Do you have de tummy ache, Daddy?"  
"I think so," said Mark.  
"Did you—did you get it from me? Is it my fault?" asked Mabel anxiously.  
Mark gave her a sleepy smile. "Of course it's not your fault," he said gently.  
"Are you gonna get better soon?"  
"I think I will, now I have you to take care of me, princess. Will you keep reading to me?"  
Had to brush tears away before I could speak. "Mabel, why don't you come down and help me lay the table for dinner? Daddy needs his rest."  
"She's fine," Mark protested groggily as I approached to scoop Mabel up.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Mmmhm," he murmured.  
"Well, all right then." I stood by the bed for a minute, searching frantically for something productive to do to keep from bursting into tears and hugging them both. Spotting the empty water glass on the bedside table, I reached for it. "I'll just refill this. Be right back." Wanted to just stand there, basking in warm glow of father-daughter moment like weepy mother in greeting-card commercial or similar, but could feel self starting to tear up again, so left the room hurriedly. Came back a moment later to find Mark fast asleep with Mabel sitting beside him, her arms wrapped around her knees as she kept her eyes fixed on him.  
"Shhhh," she whispered, placing a finger on her lips. "Daddy's asleep."  
"So I see."  
"I don't think he has de fever any more," she whispered, resting a little hand on his forehead. I smiled and brushed the curls back from her face to kiss her before gently laying my own hand on Mark's forehead.  
"Hmm, I think you're right. What a good little nurse you are. Tell you what. Why don't you stay here and keep Daddy company while I finish getting dinner ready. Come and let me know if he needs anything, OK?" Mabel nodded. I bent and kissed the top of her head before turning to leave the room.  
"Mummy?"  
I paused with my hand on the door. "What is it, sweetheart?"  
"Mummy, I don't think it's just de tummy ache that's making Daddy sick."  
I blinked. Is really v amazing how perceptive children can be sometimes. "What do you mean, Mabel?" I asked.  
Mabel gave me that serious 'I'm-older-than-I-look' expression she'd probably picked up from her brother. "I—I think he's sad, Mummy."  
"Oh, Mabel." I went and swept her up in a tight hug. "You know what? I think so too, but he's very lucky to have you, darling. He loves you more than anything in the world. You know that, don't you?"  
"Even more den Christmas and pudding and Hellvanian bunnies?"  
I smiled. "Much, much more than that." I hugged her again and told her to stay with Mark before hurrying from the room. All I could do not to dissolve into huge tearful puddle.

11.45PM: have no bloody idea what just happened. Feel like have spent entire week riding upside-down emotional roller-coaster. Mark slept pretty soundly for the rest of the evening—didn't even stir when I came up to bed. Read a bit more of bloody chapman book before dozing off, only to snap awake suddenly as if by telepathic vibe. Glanced round and saw Mark sitting up, his head in his hands, trembling violently. Realized he must have cried out, which had probably explained abrupt return to wakefulness. Mark rarely has nightmares these days, but when he does, they almost always involve attempting unsuccessfully to rescue the children from v dangerous life-threatening situation.  
"Mark?" Sat up and placed a hand on his arm. "Mark, are you all right?" No answer except sharp, ragged breathing. I could almost feel the pressure of the fresh scream building deep in his chest and reached out and pulled him close. He wound his arms around me and dropped his head onto my shoulder. "Mark, it's all right. You're all right."  
"Oh god," he gasped, curling himself into the crook of my arm. "Oh… God!"  
"Sh, Mark. It's all right. It was just a dream."  
"I couldn't—I wanted to—they were trapped—they needed me—oh God, Bridget!"  
"Mark. Listen to me." I pulled him closer. "Mark, it's OK. You're home. You're safe. We're all safe. Nothing happened." As his breathing slowed and the tension in his body drained, Mark went limp in my arms, exhausted by the episode.  
"I haven't had one of those in… I can't remember how long," he said shakily.  
"Sh, you don't want to wake the children." My admonition, rather than calming him, seemed to activate a spring, and he pulled back the covers and was half way across the room before I realized he was out of bed. "Mark, what the—" I scrambled out of bed and followed him down the hall to Billy's room. He stood over his son, his face untroubled, surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals. Tenderly Mark brushed the hair back from Billy's forehead before turning and entering Mabel's room. I watched as, without waking her, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, resting his head on the pillow next to hers. He staid like that for several minutes, until I rested a hand on his shoulder. After kissing Mabel's cheek, he stood and took my hand and followed me back to our bedroom. I pulled him into my arms again as we crawled back into bed, and when I rested my cheek against his, I noticed the tears there.  
"I'm sorry," Mark murmured as he slid back into sleep. "For—for everything." Now might as well try to figure out what the hell is going on, since it looks like I’m going to be up all night anyway.

10 April  
Weight: 8 ST (approx. Really don't care as feel blissfully weightless at moment).  
Calories: 0 (because all shagged off, obvs).  
Alcohol Units: 0 (Wonder if have taken fever from Mark. Surely this is unnatural).  
Project Love Language Day 5: gifts. According to Chapman, gift-giving v tangible way to show affection. Really must agree with him on this point; feeling v contented and at peace with husband, children, entire universe ETC., and not just because have been made gift-recipient rather than giver.

8.00AM: V surprised when woke up this morning to get children ready for school that Mark was already showered and dressed for work. He was pouring himself a second cup of coffee as I entered the kitchen. Stood and watched him for a moment until he turned and noticed me standing there.  
"Morning, love," he said softly, bending to kiss me. Stood nestled in his embrace for several minutes, breathing in his scent and relishing the fresh, starched crispness of his shirt beneath my cheek. Even after several years, am still sometimes struck by how close we were to losing him, and want to snuggle against his chest and never let go.  
Pulled back finally and looked up into his face; his color had returned, and he looked well-rested. "How are you feeling this morning?"  
Mark smiled. "Right as rain."  
I hesitated. "Mark, I—are you sure? Last night, I—you…"  
Tenderly Mark drew me to him again. "It's all right, darling," he whispered into my hair.  
"Promise?" I asked. "Because if you're lying to me—"  
"Cross my heart," he said solemnly.  
"Hey, Mum! We're going to be late for sch—" Billy came bounding into the kitchen but skittered to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of v intimate moment between parents. His ears went pink, and he lowered his head, prepared for a lecture from Mark about barging into a room like a bull at a gatepost.  
"Ahem, right." Mark straightened. "Billy," he said, trying to look sternly at his son but unable to conceal a smile. "Don't shout at your mother like that. Not," he added, "that she doesn't need hurrying along." Billy grinned. "Go and get your books," said Mark. "I've got the school run," he added to me. "I expect you've gotten little done the last few days what with diligently playing the role of nurse. Take advantage of the time."  
"Oh, you're a darling, Mark," I said, raising myself on tip-toe to peck his cheek.  
"Yes, I'm also serious about you using the time wisely," he answered before calling to Mabel. She appeared moments later, curls bouncing. "Ready, Princess?" She nodded. "Come. Hop on." Mabel's eyes widened in delight as Mark crouched and allowed her to scramble up onto his back, serenely unbothered by the fact that the offer of a ride on his shoulders was doing his suit jacket no favors. Hoisting his daughter more securely against his back, Mark leaned down to brush his lips against mine. "I have something important to take care of after work, so I might be a bit late, but I'll be home in time for dinner. Love you."  
"Love you too," I whispered. Mabel twisted round to wave goodbye as Mark left the kitchen, and Billy ran over to give me a quick hug before scurrying after them. Stood and watched them go, blinking away tears.

6:00PM: V long day. Tried like Mark said to get work done, but kept flashing back to last night; feel so helpless when Mark has one of his nightmares, though they've been few and far between. When he does get them, it's usually around this time of year, so suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Still, a bit disconcerted (though relieved) to find him so cheerful this morning, not to mention vomit-free.  
Wonder what top-secret business he had to make him late coming home, unless he decided to schedule emergency therapy session. If he had, though, surely would have told me about—gah! Children shrieking insistently that they are starving and will shrivel up and die in manner of dried lima beans if do not feed them. Am horrible, neglectful mother.

6:15PM: was trying to coax Billy into doing his math homework before deciding what to do about dinner when Mark came through the door, absorbed in conversation with someone on his mobile. He flashed a smile in our direction and signaled that he would be finished in a moment.  
"Yes, yes, you're absolutely right."  
"Daddy!" piped up Mabel, rushing to throw her arms around him.  
"Sh, Mabel. I'll be right with you." He stroked Mabel's curls as he listened to the voice at the other end. "It was very helpful. I must give you credit… No, not a thing… Yes, that's the plan… she what?... Somehow this doesn't surprise me… Oh, absolutely. Of course I'll inform you of the results. I owe the idea to you, after all… Yes, so am I. Thanks a lot, Tom." Mark ended the call and bent to give Mabel her long-anticipated hug. "How's my little princess?"  
"Hungry," Mabel pouted.  
"Hmm, did Mummy forget to feed you?"  
"Mark!" I protested. Hmph. Am not really horrible neglectful mother.  
"Mum, I think he's joking," said Billy with that half-amused, half-exasperated look that the Darcy men seem genetically predisposed to perfect.  
"What did Tom want?" I asked, hoping Mark would take the bait and change the subject.  
"Actually, I rang him on my way home from work. I wanted to ask him about… something." Mark's jaw tensed as he spoke, and he cast me a meaningful look before turning his attention back to the children. "Billy, why don't you get started on that math homework and keep your sister out of trouble for a few minutes while your mum and I start to fix dinner." Billy scowled. "Don't give me that wounded look. I'm well-versed in human rights violations, and I don't believe requiring my son to complete his homework constitutes torture." Without allowing Billy to voice any further protest, Mark followed me down to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of wine from the fridge before coming to stand beside me at the work surface. He rested his hip against the counter and took a slow sip of the wine before speaking.  
"Bridget, there's… something I need to discuss with you."  
"Is it about your conversation with Tom?" I asked, measuring out pasta. Tom can't really treat Mark professionally, obvs, because of conflict of interest, but he's always offered an ear, as a friend, if Mark ever needed it. That this is the first time Mark has taken Tom up on this offer in six years says a lot about the severity of strain he's been under. Aside from his professional concerns (re clinical distance/conflict of interest), what anyone else would have seen as turning to a friend, Mark has always considered a sign of weakness.  
"Yes," said Mark. "I'm sorry I worried you last night."  
"It's not as if you can control the nightmares," I said. "But, Mark, something had to have triggered it. You haven't had one in at least a year, probably longer. I don't like to force the issue with you, but I can tell you've been under a lot of strain, and I can't help thinking that if you'd just talked about it, well…"  
Mark sighed and took another sip of wine. "Bridget," he said slowly, "the thing is, well—" he paused, set down his wine glass, and began to pace. "Do you remember the other night, when I told you I had some important business to discuss at the law council dinner?" I nodded. "Well, I've been asked to take another… sensitive case—for lack of a better word."  
"Where?" I asked  
Mark swallowed. "Syria. There's a team of journalists who need—"  
"Whaaaaat?" V fortunate that had set down the knife I was holding as would otherwise have sliced off own hand. "Mark, are you out of your fucking mind? How could you even think—and without even asking me how I felt! Although you probably knew, which was why you didn't even bother to—"  
"Sh, Bridget, the children. They'll hear you."  
"Don't you, Mark Darcy—how you can even—when we almost lost you once—what the fuck were you thinking?"  
"Bridget, I'm not taking the assignment."  
"I don't care—you are never, ever leaving us like that again."  
"Bridget," Mark said gently. "Did you hear me?"  
"Did I hear you? What do you think this argument is ab-wait, what?"  
"I said I'm not taking the assignment," Mark repeated.  
"You… aren't taking it?"  
"No, I'm not."  
Stood still for a moment, processing Mark's words; then all at once burst into tears. "D-don't you ev-ever sc-sc-scare me like th-that again!" I sobbed. "Damn it, Mark, you stupid arsse. I love you!" He caught me up in his arms as I flung myself at him and buried my head in his chest.  
"Hush, love," he whispered into my hair. "It's all right. I'm sorry. Sh, it's all right."  
"Why didn't you just tell me what was going on?" I asked once I'd found my voice.  
Mark chuckled. "How quickly you've forgotten the way you just reacted." (V.G. point).  
"I'm sorry. I just… couldn't bear the thought of, you know."  
"I'm still sorry I didn't share with you what was going on. Honestly, that was what set me off, I think. First it was the timing—the assignment coming now. Any other time, it might have been different, but, well, just being reminded of everything—what it was like—"  
"We don't have to talk about it now if it really upsets you," I said softly.  
"No." Mark stroked my cheek with his fingertips. "That was part of what I was talking to Tom about."  
"Did he make you promise to talk to me?"  
"Not exactly. He just made me realize how unfair I was being. Partly I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily if I wasn't taking the job anyway, but, well…" he hesitated. "It felt like a no-win situation."  
I wrapped my arms around him. "I think I understand. Not taking the assignment means staying safe and keeping us all together, but it also means feeling like you've failed to answer the call of duty."  
Mark nodded. "Simply put, yes."  
I reached for his hand. "Mark, I know how important your work is to you and how good you are at it, but you know your work makes a difference no matter where you are. You don't have to go to the middle of a war-torn country to battle injustice." (Gah. Cannot believe made such an utterly cliché statement in manner of documentary narrator or similar).  
Again Mark nodded. "I know. I've offered to work on things from here, be a contact on the London end. I just—couldn't leave you like that. Not again."  
"Oh, Mark." As he bent to kiss me, Mabel suddenly burst into the kitchen.  
"Mummy, I'm hungry!" Exchanged guilty look with Mark before turning to her.  
"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry." As I went back to chopping vegetables, Mark crouched and scooped Mabel up in a tight hug.  
"I have an idea. Why don't we catch up on our reading while we wait for dinner? We can find out what became of Peter Rabbit."  
Mabel smiled. "Will you do de bunny voices?"  
"Absolutely."  
Mabel tucked her head beneath his chin and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you, Daddy."  
Mark drew her closer and buried his face in her hair. "And I love you, princess."  
"How much?" Mabel asked.  
"More than pudding and Christmas and Sylvanian bunnies." Had to abandon vegetable chopping and reach for kitchen roll to wipe eyes. Is v dangerous to enact scenes of domestic bliss in kitchen during meal preparation. Could ruin the potatoes…or lose a finger.

11.00 PM: House quiet. Children and husband fast asleep. After put children to bed, decided to turn in early between lack of sleep last night and emotional exhaustion of the day. Had just finished cleaning teeth when Mark approached from behind and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against him and nuzzling my neck.  
"You know, Bridget, we never finished our conversation in the kitchen."  
I blinked. "Was there more?"  
He placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me round to face him. "I believe Mabel interrupted us when I was in the middle of trying to tell you something extremely important." He studied me for a moment. (Mmm, love how his eyes always seem to turn a shade darker when he's thinking). "Ah, yes, I remember what it was now," and he was kissing me, lifting me off my feet as he tightened his hold on me. Reflexively I responded by wrapping my legs around his waist.  
"I think," Mark said breathlessly as we drew apart, "that's one love language we're both rather fluent in."  
I laughed. "Well, you know, sometimes these things just—wait a moment." It suddenly dawned on me what Mark had just said. "Mark?"  
"Yes, Bridget?"  
"How did you, uh, know about that?"  
Mark smiled. "One conversation at a time, Bridget. It's rude to interrupt, and in any case," he added, carrying me to the bed, "I think this particular chat requires a more… comfortable venue." Needless to say, actual conversation moved a bit lower on the priority list in favor of other items of importance.

Later, snuggled against Mark's chest, roused self sufficiently to ask, "So, how did you know about the love languages?"  
Mark propped himself on one elbow to look down at me. "Tom told me," he said simply.  
I frowned. "It was… supposed to be a surprise. Like an experiment."  
Mark pressed a kiss to my temple. "Right, about that. Pro tip: if you don't want me to know what you're reading, I'd strongly advise you not to leave your book open on the bedside table." (Shit. Duly noted).  
"Was that what you were laughing about with Tom?" I asked.  
"Oh, that." Mark chuckled. "Tom was just sharing with me Sharon's assessment of the theory. Something about—" he paused—"Fucking fundamentalist hogwash."  
I giggled. "Basically, yeah."  
"I really have to disagree though," Mark continued. "I mean, once I picked it up and started thinking it through, it actually made a lot of sense. When I mentioned it to Tom, he gave me a bit of advice about trying to implement the practices myself… which reminds me." Disentangling himself from the sheets, Mark slid from bed and padded across the room, returning with a rectangular box wrapped in gold paper which he deposited in my lap. "Open it," he instructed. Curiously I pealed back the paper and lifted the lid of the box.  
"If this is another self-help book," I began, withdrawing the slim volume from the box.  
Mark smiled. "Well, it's certainly a guide of sorts," he said.  
"Mark, you're being irritatingly cryptic," I complained. "And in any case—" I glanced down at the cover—"What in the world would we need with a guidebook for—" I squinted at the lettering again—"DisneyLand Paris, unless…"  
"Yeeeees?" Mark prompted.  
"Unless—but no. You aren't—we aren't—going to… Disney Land?"  
Mark raised an eyebrow. "You aren't objecting, surely? Think about it within the framework of our lovely new theory of love languages. It occurred to me that a family holiday might offer the perfect opportunity to really work on all of them. Plus," he added, "the children have been begging to go for ages."  
"Mark, I—" overcome, I resorted to the usual speechless tactic of launching myself into his arms.  
"Good God," he laughed, barely catching himself. "If this is your reaction, Mabel might be in danger of spontaneously combusting."  
I kissed him. "Mark, it's the perfect idea! I love it! Lots of quality time, plenty of opportunities for affirming words—"  
"You're starting to sound like Tom," said Mark. "But that's the general idea, and since there's a rather costly purchase involved, I'd say this constitutes a gift."  
"And the children will be so exhausted by the end of the day that we'll have time for, you know…"  
"Pleasure Island," Mark finished.  
"But wait. What about acts of service?"  
"Ah, yes." Mark gave me a wink. "I have a clever idea about that. Lie back down and I'll show you."

Mmm, have now been thoroughly "serviced," though accused Mark, in v teasing way, obvs, of cheating and combining two love languages in one gesture. He says he prefers to think of it as being innovative. Cannot wait to tell children about DisneyLand, though think is best if postpone revelation. Mark has cleared his schedule for the first week after the school term ends, which is still three months away. Mabel will certainly combust with the anticipation. Mark assures me this is not human rights violation, but still seems like unnecessary form of torture. Mmm, feeling v sleepy and at peace with universe. Mark all snuggled up to me in manner of puppy. Excellent start to project love language, I think.

The End

Notes  
If you're interested in the book mentioned in this story, you can check it out [here](http://www.amazon.com/The-Love-Languages-Secret-Lasts/dp/0802473156)


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